Hunter
by If I Could I Wouldn't
Summary: "We're hunters. Nothing more, nothing less – and if you can't follow that I don't think you're cut out for this job." I held his dark gaze. "We're hunters," I tilted my wrist back, "we hunt," I calculated the angle, "we kill." I let the knife loose, not checking to see if it had reached the target, I knew it would, "we live." I didn't look back. Dystopian AU/AH/Fourtris.
1. Hunter

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, quotes, songs or references that I may use in this writing; they all belong to the original owner. Any ideas of my own (take the plot for instance) and other characters that I have created belong to me.**_

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_Hunter: A person who hunts game or other wild animals for food or in sport. Hunting is the practice of killing or trapping any living organism, or pursuing it with the intent of doing so._

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The world was in ruins. It was strange that only now people were realising this. After the wars, after that fall of the economy, long since people had found any use of money. It was now – when killing for money was an accepted job – that people started to doubt their own conscious.'

They didn't think that bodies' just appearing on the streets was weird, or the sudden rise in active gangs. They didn't think to stop it then, before the crime and death rate rose higher than it had ever been before?

Or maybe by then it was out of control, after all, when everyone suddenly loses all hope then they're not going to do anything – even if the government passes a dozen laws stopping it.

I do remember someone telling me that assassins, as they used to be called, were illegal and arrested if they were ever caught. I laugh at the thought, that someone would actually have the power to put someone who _killed for a living _behind bars, but it doesn't matter now.

What matters is that what was formally called an 'assassin' is now what I am. I kill, I stay alive. And if that means leaving my only family, then I will.

Only the strong survive in this world, and I intend to survive as long as I can.

* * *

I hadn't always done this, only after our parents had died and Caleb decided he was going to train me himself.

I remember the first time, when I had been all shaking limbs and gritted teeth. The gun had shaken in my hand as I brought it up, pointing towards the front of the man's chest.

It had been slippery in my hand, the cool metal constantly escaping my grasp. I couldn't seem to be able to concentrate, my thoughts scattering in a dozen different directions.

I wonder what it would be like to die, would you be thinking of all your best moments, or thinking of the most special person in the world. Or maybe it's like this now, with all the ideas you wanted to think crowding to the surface and forcing themselves upon you. Maybe you just don't think, maybe you just fall into blissful nothingness.

That would be nice, nothing having to think.

Not like now, where my focus is directed towards a screaming man and a disappointed brother. Who do I value most? Who do I choose? But I already knew.

I banished all thoughts of guilt, stopped seeing the man's face, and thought only of myself and my family. We had to survive, we had to survive. So I stopped everything, clasped the weapon tightly in my two handed grip and pulled back the trigger.

* * *

If I hadn't vomited right then I might have noticed that the screaming had stopped – but I didn't. All I could feel was the horror that I'd taken something from someone, without even thinking of the consequences, I'd been stuck in an unfeeling oblivion.

My breath escaped me, forcing its way out of my mouth in ragged gasps. The after-taste of my earlier meal was bitter in my mouth, reminding me of what had caused it. I closed my eyes, clocking out the dirty ground beneath me, it didn't help. The man's face, stained with tears and flushed with terror was imprinted on my vision.

Caleb's cool touch on my back brings me back; it's devoid of warmth, something that has been lost to him for years. "You did well, better than I did." He leaves me then, leaves me to think of what that must mean. If Caleb looks like he was born to kill and I was better than him, what does that make me?

Somewhere in the far corners of my mind, something whispers that it makes me a survivor.

If only I had listened sooner, I might have been able to save my brother.

* * *

It was when Caleb had earned a reputation that people started to target us, first it was our water supply. Someone had snuck something into it, something nasty. They didn't count on it changing the water colour however, probably because the drug was old and had adverse side-affects.

After that incident we moved. It didn't hell. Someone had managed to catch Caleb in the leg, and even if it had only clipped him it was still the worst injury he had gained in all the years of his life. He couldn't walk for months, and the jobs he did after were limited because of the limb he developed.

It wasn't this that killed him, not really, it was me. I was the one that had been taken as bait; I had been the one that couldn't do anything about it because I refused to be trained frequently.

My brother had come after me when I had been kidnapped, eyes cold with fury and trigger happy. He was making his way towards me, ready to shoot down the last offender when his leg bucketed underneath him, twisting at a strange angle.

That was his weakness, me and his leg. He died at gunpoint; his eyes squeezed shut, probably thinking of happier times, when the whole family was together. Not now, when it was like this.

The anger that had seized me to have the last remaining relative taken from me was overwhelming and it consumed me, taking control.

There were no survivors last night, none apart from me and a half-whispered confession from the man who had killed my brother: 'You're just like the rest of them, a monster. Killing is in your blood, and it looks like you're the worst.'

He was right, like somehow he knew what I would become, and what I would aspire to be. No one knew of me, but they would, I would make sure they would. Even if I had to write my name in blood on the walls while they died.

I was a survivor, and I would prove to anyone and anything that thought I wasn't. Nothing could stop me now, not when Dauntless was within my grasp.

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_**So this may seem confusing, but really, it will all be explained in the next chapter, I can't really drag it out when I'm only planning six chapters.**_

_**Thoughts?**_

_**Snow.**_


	2. Hunted

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, quotes, songs or references that I may use in this writing; they all belong to the original owner. Any ideas of my own (take the plot for instance) and other characters that I have created belong to me.**_

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_Hunted: Being perused or searched, often with force or hostility, for the purpose of catching or killing._

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Leaving something is harder than promising to stay with it. You don't realise how much of an effect it has on you until you are without it and you wake up just after the sun is splashing deep greens and blues onto the colourless earth. That was my reminder anyway, the waking up. Or maybe I only woke up at that time because of the nightmares they had instilled in me.

The feeling that I was constantly drowning in my sleep, unable to breathe because of the water rushing into my lungs and then the welcome relief when morning came to stop the darkness from consuming me completely. Sometimes it wasn't even water, sometimes I was being surrounded by people, all talking, jabbering, going on and on about _something_ – but I couldn't hear them, couldn't work out the words. It would be then, when I was furiously trying to make sense of the familiar but foreign language that they would turn to me and speak, asking dozens upon dozens of questions. Each time I couldn't answer, shook my head, tried to back away they would get more and more angry until I was almost on the floor, crying.

The same feeling of being trapped was there in that dream as well.

That was what they reminded me of in the end, being trapped, but when I got my taste of freedom I couldn't even save my own blood, instead closing to watch it spill out of open wounds. This was why I was back I reminded myself, so I could be better, so I could shoot down strangers to waste away the fuel that was my anger.

Someone once told me that anger always results in uncoordinated thought and irrational thinking, though now, when anger is aiding me every move, I don't agree. If anything, it makes people fear you, because until you stop the anger nothing will stop it.

Then again, someone else once told me that fear is the strongest weapon against an ally, that it sharpens everything you do, that it makes you feel alive.

He also said that it wakes you up, ironic really, because it's the very things that I fear that don't ever let me have a fulfilling nights sleep.

His name was Four and it has been such a long time since I have seen him.

* * *

They are not happy when I return, all sneers and scowls. They don't like that I'm back, it stops them from having a reason to hunt me down and kill me. The fact that I haven't returned with Caleb however, is what really causes ripples. Wary glances are exchanged and whispers circulate faster than that of my old school.

But that was Before. This is After.

And After consists of death and guns and Dauntless. Maybe I want it all to go back to before?

"What are you doing here?" He's leaning against the wall, dark eyes gleaming in the dim lights of the hastily put together UV overhead. They flicker and dance, casting shadows over his cheekbones.

I shrug, not smiling. He finds this strange somehow, the upturned corners of his mouth dropping as he takes in the bags under my eyes, the dirt marking my skin and the absence of my brother. It's weird how after a while, we associate people with the ones they share close bonds with. How it seems impossible to say their name without the other. Tris and Caleb. Now it's Just Tris.

People don't like change. They'd rather forget. That is why no one talks about when everything was alright and fine and we didn't have to care about anything because we were all safe. Why talk about something that they once had, when the reality they were faced with now was an absolute waste?

He steps forward slightly, concerned. "Where's Caleb, Beatrice?"

I flinch at the name, the way it feels so wrong. I am not Beatrice, I am better than that. I am better than her. I will not make the mistake that she made.

It's like I have been split in half too.

"Tris." I mutter, but loud enough for him to hear me. His eyebrows scrunch together, and the hand that reached out for me stopped.

"What?"

I looked up, making sure he had a clear view of my face. The sharp angles and the new lines that had taken place. I looked older – I felt older. "My name is Tris."

Uriah is staring at me, probably trying to find the girl I was before, the one that stayed for a week and hid behind her brother. The one that screamed for Caleb to stop when her brother managed to (somehow) get into six fights in the very same week.

He didn't find anything. "Yes, yes. Tris…" He disappears back into the dark corner where he came from, the one that conceals the pathway to the rest of the complex. He's gone to tell the others, the few that I spoke to anyway, that I'm different, that I am not _their _Beatrice.

I am no ones. I'm going to make sure of that.

I turn away, back to observing what happened while I was gone. The metal sheeting covering the walls were still covered in rust, the constant drip of water in the corner where it splashed into an overflowing bowl and the cables that hung down from the ceiling at odd points. I would avoid them, sometimes when the electricity came on, which it did every once in a while, but not for very long, the power would rush through them and since half of the plastic had been taken away…

I ducked under the nearest one, in the opposite direction the one Uriah had just taken and I saw another shadow looking out one of the less cracked windows. The light that was let through the small slits outlines his muscular frame, standing without a slouch.

"I thought you had gone for good?" Four's voice was deep, with a slight roughness to it.

I go to stand next to him, trying to find what his blue eyes are looking for. "So did I."

A chuckle, and his head turns towards me, just so I can see the small outline of a scar that mars his chin. "What brought you back then?"

I take a few seconds to try and see past the grime that clings to the remaining pieces of the window, past the rotting pieces of wood that do a poor job at keeping the cold out and try to see if there is anything to focus on. A swing, slightly moving in the breeze catches my eye. It's one of the only things left untouched. And it looks so alone.

Maybe all it needed was a kid to come and it down on it, to use it, to cherish it, to find joy in the simple motion of going higher and higher until they could reach the clouds, and, if they really tried – the stars.

"I guess..." I start, and realise I don't know how to finish it. "It doesn't matter."

He doesn't question it and turns back to the outside. That's what I like about Four, he doesn't ask questions. "So you won't be staying?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere." _I have nowhere else to go._

The unspoken words that longer between us, that drove us both here, liger in the air, leaving a slightly bittersweet end to the conversation. But wasn't that how they always ended with us?

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_**Thanks for the favourites, reviews and follows.**_

_**Hope the chapter was easy to understand, I've been trying to work on my descriptions – making them more… descriptive…? Anyway, what did you think? Has this left you with any questions? Tris and Four fluff and killing next chapter.**_

_**Snow.**_


	3. Capture

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, quotes, songs or references that I may use in this writing; they all belong to the original owner. Any ideas of my own (take the plot for instance) and other characters that I have created belong to me.**_

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_Capture: To take something by force or stratagem as to gain so control or exert influence over. To capture something can also be seen as to take possession._

* * *

Everyone who is here must have some talent welding a gun. It's an unspoken rule that you have to be able to use one without remorse and with skill. I often wonder how they have managed to horde so many when there seems to always be rations on food and clothing. It would seem, however, that they make their own, and now have eventually come up with a light, handheld gun with a powerful spring.

I don't mind though, it means that you could steal dozens of them and no one would notice – or they would, and they wouldn't say anything about it. As much as this pleases me, and keeps me safe with the knowledge that if everything blows to shit I have at least six guns carefully placed throughout my room, I've always had an easier relationship with my knifes. If I'm dangerous with an object with a trigger, then I am lethal when I touch sharp metal.

However, due to the circumstances I had been in the past few weeks, and the delirious state I had been in when Caleb had been killed, I hadn't touched the familiar handle of any kind of blade. Whether it be the crude daggers the stragglers on the streets made, or the pristine perfection of the double-edged knifes Dauntless make, and then went on to teach me to love.

This was why that I would be found in one of the lesser known practice halls, a spare plank of wood held between to weights standing at the far end of the room. I was practising; training, improving, and I wanted to do it alone.

The cool metal is inches away from my skin; just I can feel it as if it was touching the lines and cuts imprinted into my palm. I slightly bend my wrist toward my forearm, placing the weight on my right leg, and then I raised my arm so that the knife was raised alongside my head. Taking a deep breath, I made sure that my when I threw it, it wouldn't cut me, the first time I ever threw a nicked my ear, going as far as to drawing blood.

I shifted my weight, changing from my right to left, and swung my arm forward in front of me, keeping my arm dead on straight as I let the knife go. It shook as it landed dead centre on the target. The throw was solid and stuck through the plywood I had hastily set up.

To anyone observing it would have been the perfect shot, but it wasn't. My muscles ached from the poor follow through of the throw and my feet had been unbalanced. I really was out of practice.

I went to pick up the next knife – this one with the weight on the blade rather than the handle. This would mean a change of grip. Rule one in knife throwing: throw the weight. But before I could throw it however, someone interrupted the session.

"Impressive." It was Eric's voice, tinged with amusement. "I didn't know you could throw _quite _so well."

Would it be so back if I changed my target? It would shut him up at least. "You've only ever talked to me two times." I turned back to the wood; it would do no good to kill him, even if it would have stopped his infernal chatter.

"Ah, Bea- Oh wait, its Tris now, right?" A twisted grin adorns his face, doing the exact opposite of what a smile is supposed to do. His hair, which I remember being long, has been cut short and now spikes up in a dozen different directions like a deranged hedgehog. "Actually _Tris, _I've talked to you four times, you seem to have forgotten the time when you came here and I helped you out."

I raise an eyebrow, judging how much strength I would need to put behind the throw to catch his hand. "You mean when you tried to push me off the edge of the building?"

He nods excitedly, and his murky grey eyes gleam a little brighter. "Yeah, that time, though really there wasn't much conversing going on, more… screaming?"

Another knife is thrown, causing the whole board the sway with the force behind it. This time, however, it wasn't mine. I look over to Eric, noting how he is in the correct position to have thrown the shot. His legs are standing with one foot forward, taking the whole weight, and body is facing forward. His technique is perfect, and I have no doubt that he could kill anyone if he wanted to, using any amount of weapons, or not, if the situations called for it.

It just reminds me of the unfair advantage most of my opponents have. How they are stronger, more experienced. My hand tightens around the handle of the dagger, feeling the leather create marks in my skin from where it was messily tied around. "And your point, Eric?"

He stomps forward, catching my neck in his hand and pushing me up against the wall. I silently count how many ways I could twist myself out of his grip, but I remain where I am. Eric… he held a lot of power here, he could just as easily get me killed as he could kill me himself. Either way, no one would speak a word against it. As it was in Dauntless.

"Listen, _Tris."_ He hisses the word out, as if the feel of it in his mouth is poison. "I don't know why you came back, or why you suddenly feel like you can do whatever you want but you can't." His grip tightens. "We're hunters. Nothing more, nothing less – and if you can't follow that I don't think you're cut out for this job."

I wrench myself out of his grip, catching his arm and twisting it around his back. Then, using his own body weight against him, I rolled over him, still with his arm in my grip, causing his whole body to fly after me and land onto the floor.

He groaned as I picked up my knife from where I had dropped it beforehand. "What are you-"

I held his dark gaze as I interrupted him. "We're hunters," I tilted my wrist back, "we hunt," I calculated the angle, "we kill." I let the knife loose, not checking to see if it reached the target I had intended it for; I knew it would, "we live."

He couldn't stop me, not with a _very _sharp object protruding out of his leg, his groans were enough to tell me that much. I left the room and without anything to go back to, I didn't look back.

* * *

"I heard you were back." Peter sits in the chair, twirling around its axel, the movement forces his voice to increase and decrease in volume as he faces away from me. Peter was around when I was here, but then, he was just another cruel, harsh, trainee. From then, I had learned, he had been promoted a dozen times, killed a few people and had claimed a position of absolute power that ruled over his mentor, Eric.

I smile slightly, but the action goes unnoticed by the tall, dark haired boy. If I had to guess I would say he was around my age – seventeen. I suppose it is only fitting that people of power are younger as the average survival rate goes down. Poverty, starvation and killers are to blame for that however.

He stops spinning, finally looking at me. An easy grin spreads across his face as he takes in my appearance. "Well look at you. The last time we talked you could hardly get a word out and now… well, I would be scared to up against you in a fight. You seem to have garnered quite a reputation in the three days you've been here."

Reputation…?

"It seems that stabbing Eric, not talking to anyone and sneaking around at night isn't all that good for trying to make friends. Especially the second one, the first – I'm sure – they would have loved you for, still do." He leaned back on the chair, and it groaned under his weight. He must have salvaged it from an old abandoned building, probably an office. "So, what are you here for anyway? We never really… got along."

Yes, because beating me up to get to my brother was the definition of a strong friendship, or any positive relationship. I ignored the ghost feel of his foot on my face and his fists punching into my stomach and continued with what I had come here to do. "I need a job."

"A job?"

I nodded.

He laughed, reaching towards one of the draws, or maybe it was just a hole – I couldn't actually see. "Well, I can't deny you of one. You _are_ a member of Dauntless, even if it took you a month to come back to us." He took out a stack of papers, some old and yellowing, others ripped up pieces of newspapers and some, one about two, were a crisp white. They must have staggered across some kind of goldmine to find that. Peter flicked through them, sometimes stopping to read, sometimes emitting low whistles or a shake of the head.

Finally, after what seemed like a very drawn out process, he took out one of the newspapers and held it out to me. "Here, take this, I think it'll suit you just fine."

Across the top of the page, in scrawling, messy handwriting was a name, an age, a description and a price.

_Molly Atwood_

_16_

_Tall, fat, ugly, crooked teeth, dark eyes_

_2 food (tin), 3 water (tin)_

I looked up, only to find Peter trying to shove all the papers back to where they belonged. He was doing an awful job of it, random pages fluttered out and the rest that did stay were crushed.

"How am I supposed to find," I checked the page again, the name so plain and ordinary that I had already forgotten it, "Molly Atwood?"

Peter looked up, confused, but also slightly amused. "Didn't they tell you?"

"What?" I asked slowly, this answer only seemed to be funnier to him. I was defiantly out the loop somehow, but I hadn't talked to anyone, I had a reason, abet one that was my own doing.

Peter's grin grew wider, "you only do the killing Prior, the tracking goes to someone else."

I narrowed my eyes. "Who?"

"I think you know him, I heard you talked to him on your first day, the only interaction you've had with anyone apart from Eric, Four, was it?"

_God, why did they get such a spoil sport to tag along with _me?

* * *

_**So, hopefully, you're learning more about this world, that's the aim **__**anyway. Also, sorry if it's OOC, it's been ages since I've read the books and I have only just seen the movie so I'm going off my own ideas and the movie portrayals.**_

_**So, are you following? Ready to see more Four and Tris interactions? Are Peter and Eric alright? Anything that is majorly confusing? Any general thoughts? Leave a review to put forward these thoughts.**_

_**Snow.**_


	4. Disease

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, quotes, songs or references that I may use in this writing; they all belong to the original owner. Any ideas of my own (take the plot for instance) and other characters that I have created belong to me.**_

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_Disease:_ _A disordered or incorrectly functioning organ, part, structure, or system of the body resulting from the effect of genetic or developmental errors, infection, poisons, nutritional deficiency or imbalance, toxicity, or unfavorable environmental factors; illness; sickness; ailment._

* * *

I hate the rain. It was decided. All it had done during the short, two day trip I was on was lash down and soak me to the bone. It had also washed away the tracks that Four had been following - prolonging the trip and leaving many empty silences where neither of us spoke. So, all in all, it had just made this whole endeavor a whole bunch of awkward, tension and much needed talking being put off.

The last time I had seen Four, not counting the time when I arrived, had been the night before I left for good. It was that night that he had told me that he didn't want to see me hurt and had pressed a gun into my hands. It was his way of saying goodbye without actually having to say it. We share that in common, not liking goodbyes, I don't know his reasons, maybe they are the same as mine. That a goodbye doesn't mean that person will come back. Just like every other time I had said it.

I doubt it is though; maybe it's just him being socially awkward. He's that type, his actions speaking louder than his words. That's the impression I got from him at least.

Like the fact that he can't seem to look Molly in the eye now that we are here. The guilt must be getting to him, how he aided someone in the killing of her, an innocent. Though surely he should know that if someone wanted her dead then she couldn't have been as pure as he thought she was. It always comes down to a matter of past. Can you judge someone by there's? Though if you don't know it in the first place how are you to judge?

I guess with both mine and Four's points of view are wrong. He can't look someone in the eye when he pulls the trigger, and only if he has good reason will he break from the pattern, and I can, no matter what, if it will ensure mine and whoever I love safety.

In both respects, however, the guilt can be crippling.

So maybe, we aren't that different after all.

* * *

I tilt my head sideways as I take in the girl before me. She seems too young to be caught up in all this, but I have heard of kids as young as twelve taking a gun to a man's head and shooting. And since she is only a year younger than me I can't really judge. What I can frown upon, however is the tears marking tracks down her cheeks and the pleading she is trying to force onto me.

Don't they know that I don't care if they have family, or are innocent? I came here to do what I do best - kill. I really couldn't care if they have a mother, a brother and a pet dog to take care of themselves. If they were careful, and didn't make the same mistakes I did, they wouldn't be in this situation.

"Please, I have people waiting for me, they depend on me. Can you do that to innocent people?" I roll my eyes; obviously they think this act is believable. The grin that crosses her face when she thinks I'm not looking tells a different story. One where she is capable of manipulating dozens of people for her own benefit. This will just make her silence all the more satisfying. Knowing she died trying to con her way out of it.

"Shut up." I growl, and she stops, surprised, forgetting that she is supposed to be upset for a second.

"What?" She blurts out, dropping the facade all together.

"I said shut up. I don't really care."

She starts to splutter, "but, but, my family-"

"I don't think you have one, and if you do, I think they left you a long time ago. Can't blame they really."

"You fucking bi-"

* * *

A gunshot echoes around the compound, and the noise of her body slumping onto the floor is what is left of her insult. She was more annoying than Peter, that, I could give her. Though it isn't necessarily a good thing. It just made her death much more satisfying.

I spare a glance at Four who is steadfastly looking away. Can't blame him really, the shit was messy, nothing like my usual clean kills, it ripped through half a dozen muscles and has caused all that blood to ruin her jacket. A shame, it was nice. But I don't really think that was what he was turning away from. Must be upsetting to see one of your friends turn into a cold-blooded killer.

Can't dwell on it, I need to know what to do next. "So, Four, you seem to know a bit about this whole business. What do I do next?"

He looks over to me, then to my hand where the gun is, and then to the body. Yeah, defiantly guilty for giving me the very weapon in my hands. I wonder if he noticed, probably. "You need to take something back, to prove you killed her."

Oh, so that was it. I had to cut off a finger or take a ring or some other shit she carried. This job is far easier than I would have thought, I was almost expecting to have to carry the body back.

I frowned, and then moved around the body, trying to see if she had a bracket, a ring or a necklace I could find and remove. As much as if fingerprints were proof a few years ago, they weren't now and defining features or items were important in knowing who exactly who had been successfully disposed of.

After a few seconds of searching I had determined that she didn't have any possessions on her person. None that you couldn't fine on anyone else. What was interesting though, was the tattoo that decorated her wrist. Uneven scales encased in a circle. Typical, she had joined Candor.

Great. Now, I would have another ransom on my head from the very people that had funded the company behind the plague. Then again, maybe this was from before, and she had left them. It would make sense after all the things they had done.

Caused global devastation, killed thousands of people, left the world in ruins. I glared at the symbol for a few seconds before pulling out my knife. Even if no one particularly liked Candor it was still a defining feature that would indicate that I had caught the right person.

I sighed; this was going to be messy.

* * *

"You didn't have to do that."

"What?" We had just left the warehouse where we had dumped the body, or what was left of it. She was missing a hand. A hand that was currently being held in a spare plastic bag I had found lying around.

Four sighed. "Cutting of her hand to get the tattoo. You could have just taken the picture in her pocket."

She had a photo on her. So I didn't have to go through that horrible ritual of trying to cut through her bone. And the mess, I have blood all over me now. "So you knew this, watched me struggle and didn't tell me?"

He shrugged, smiling slightly, "I wanted to see how long it would take you to realise."

"Well, evidently that didn't happen. I had to snap her fucking bone it was taking that long. It didn't even snap where I was cutting. You know how long it took me to cut that much?"

"You shot her for that kind of language."

I chuckled, shaking my head at him, "I shot her because it had to happen sooner or later. Sooner because she insulted me, rather than later if she hadn't."

"You know how stupid that sounds?" He raised an eyebrow and I noticed just how blue his eyes were in the light.

I grinned up at him, not at all bothered by the height difference. "Fucking stupid."

We walked back to Dauntless with laughs and smiles because we were just two idiots messing around in a world that was too much for us and we didn't mind one little bit.

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_**I'm going to make the fic seven chapters long. I've added an extra chapter for relationship development so... My friend proof read this and told me to wash my mouth out with soap. I told her she read **r9k**, so, we're even. Follow me on **__tumblr (alotlesseffort__** or **__adozendaysaway)._

_**On that note, who do you think would win Katniss or Tris? **_

_**Thanks for the reviews, the follow and the favourites. It's nice to be appreciated. Sorry for the OOCness.**_

_**Snow.**_


	5. Music

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, quotes, songs or references that I may use in this writing; they all belong to the original owner. Any ideas of my own (take the plot for instance) and other characters that I have created belong to me.**_

* * *

_Music: Vocal or instrumental sounds (or both) combined in such a way as to produce beauty of form, harmony, and expression of emotion._

* * *

You could see the stars. Before all you could see was a dark, hazy fog that clouded the sky, but now, every galaxy and constellation were burning and I could see them all. Each and every last one of them were now clear to me, never having given up in their goal to be seen, shining a dozen different colours – from green to red to blue to white to pink.

And it was beautiful.

The staircase behind me started to creak, the metal screaming under the weight of another person using it after years of being left untouched.

I ignored them when they had finished the climb and I ignored them when they came to stand beside me.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Four's voice was low, as if he spoke any louder than a whisper it would break the stars and send them crashing to earth.

I smiled slightly. "What is?"

"The fact that we can see everything now." I glanced over to him, but he wasn't looking upwards like I was, he was watching what had once been the city, now devoid of any movement bar the wind rustling papers. "Before we were blind of seeing, but now, it's very clear."

And maybe he was thinking about the city, but I got the impression he wasn't. Because we had learned a lesson, or the last of us had, that we shouldn't mess with things we know nothing about and have no control over

Then again, it could have been the stars he was talking about.

"Not clear enough."

Four shook him head, toeing the gravel under his foot with his shoe. "No, but its improvement."

I would give him that one.

* * *

We ate lunch together, well, it wasn't necessarily a thing that I had agreed to, Four just came over and plonked himself down, biting down on the crappy dinners they had served out. I wouldn't put up with anything like that, instead hunting for my own food – not that anyone knew that anyway.

(Smoked rabbit was some much better than much made up of all the canned food that hadn't gone off.)

We didn't say much to each other, or really anything at all. Just nodded and sat in quiet companionship, me reading some book I had salvaged from an abandoned office building on the way back from our business and him staring at the wall. Probably trying to work out what the symbols etched into the metal framework meant.

If he was lucky, and a technical wiz he would know, but there wasn't really a chance to show off those skills, so I guess we'll never know

It wouldn't have been useful anyway. But I really wanted to know.

* * *

It was an accident, and it really was, but somehow we were backed against the wall, his arm pressed against my throat, and every inch of our bodies pressed together.

And it's a bit distracting when a guy does that to you, especially when you are in line with their lips in said movement.

My hands were hooked around his arms, trying desperately – or they had been, I wasn't so sure now – to try and find a fault in his manoeuvre so I could vault over his head and bring him back in line with the ground.

But his lips were really quite distracting and I would have to tilt my head upwards if I wanted to see his face, that action would be admitting weakness and that wasn't good in my books – not at all.

So maybe I did use the dodgy underhand tactic of kneeing him, but what was I to do when my only option was either conceive defeat or kiss him?

* * *

I know I'm not on perfect form when it comes to most things, but since that incident with Eric, I've been training with my knives. This is why, when Four comes up to me, trying to tell me I'm doing it wrong and showing me I really should have sent him away but when he asked me if he wanted to show me.

Well, maybe I was a little tempted to say yes, because after the last time we got into a fight it ended with his body as close to mine as possible, and I still wanted more. The atmosphere hadn't been all that friendly either.

So I was a little tempted to say yes, but I can't resist showing him when he's wrong. And throwing the knife just so that it nicked his ear was such a great way to tell him that no, I don't your help, and no, I am most defiantly not attracted to you.

I guess only one of those is true.

* * *

Someone has found batteries – the big type, which were used to power electronic golf carts. To anyone but us it would be worthless, what was the point in having a battery when everything was done.

But someone seems to have been hoarding a music collection that is rather good and have used the salvage to turn the music right up loud so that the whole building id throbbing with a deep bass and shouted lyrics.

Everyone, including Eric (who is still limping), is in a relatively happy mood and even the slob has been exchanged for something better, the food in the cans before it becomes slob.

I didn't eat it though, nor did I dance, just sat and watched as everyone I used to know had fun, escaping from this little hell we all seemed to be stuck in.

Four, hair messy and looking less than perfect stumbles towards me, grin fixed in place with a drink in hand. Probably lemon water, the kind that they used to sell in glass bottles, and the kind that doesn't go off because of it.

"Dance with me." It isn't a question, but is at the same time. I'm free to refuse, shake my head no and stay where I am. But Four is here and (relatively) music is playing and I really should have a bit more fun.

So I smile back at him and take his hand, not noticing (not at all) how rough it is, but how careful his touch is.

I would have to care to notice these things – and I don't care.

(But I really do.)

* * *

_**Edit: Cleared up the dozens of mistakes I could find. *sigh* I hate reading my own writing and my friend glances at it then looks away.**_

_**Thanks for the favourites, reviews and follows (really).**_

_**Snow.**_


	6. Curse

___**Disclaimer: I don't own any**____**characters, quotes, songs or references that I may use in this writing; they all belong to the original owner. Any ideas of my own (take the plot for instance) and other characters that I have created belong to me.**_

* * *

_Curse: A solemn utterance intended to invoke a supernatural power to inflict harm or punishment on someone or something, often used to express anger or annoyance._

* * *

He wakes me in the middle of the night – for a second I wonder how he even found where I sleep, but then I remember the party the day before and how we'd both collapsed on the floor exhausted – his hair is all over the place and his voice has something I have never heard in it before.

Not that I've shared nearly enough time to know the difference in tones as he talks about his family, or how it sounds when he's upset. All I know of Four is stubbornness and happiness (and that was only because of the drinks).

"I've been called out."

For a moment I think my heart has stopped entirely, cracking open and breaking for one second of painful wrenching in my chest. It shouldn't be like thing, Four is strong, Four is ace with a gun, Four is better than anyone I know, Four _can look after himself _and yet the painful agony that he is going away to kill an influential leader (because he has been called out, not requested) is overwhelming. I shouldn't be so worried, but I am – I don't know which is worse.

Four's face is half-covered in shadows, casting long arching darkness over his bones and brightening his eyes. It's hauntingly beautiful in a distant, removed way of a photograph you acquire or a half-smudged memory of happier times. But he isn't that, he's all edges and muscle and definition. Four, if he couldn't not be anything else, could never be blurred.

"Who?" I ask because it is all I can ask, comfort does not come in the form of contact but rather in the presence of those you need.

He waits for a beat, an infinite moment filled with countless answers and possibilities, and then: "Jeanine Matthews."

I don't allow myself to react, no intake of breath, no clenching of fists, no tearful stammering, but quiet acceptance. If I did then he would know just how much it hurt me that he may never come back, never talk to me again. I had nothing to say and just manage to control the only syllable that I do manage to spit out, "right."

But Four has always been good at reading people, and maybe the time that we shared was longer for him. Maybe he spent more time studying me than I did of him, or perhaps people just _know me _without me knowing them.

I didn't know that Four was hugging me – nor had I expected it – until my head was safe tucked into the side of his neck, my lips inches away from his collarbone. His pulse thrummed against my cheek, perfectly still, steadily beating. I was sure he could feel mine, because it felt like it was trying to rip itself out of my chest, clawing and thrashing to _escape, escape, escape. _

"It's fine."

It wasn't.

"I'm going to come back."

_Will you?_

"But I might as well do this so you don't forget me."

_I could never-_

His lips were soft, halting the half-formed thought even before it was completed. Their movements were precise, rehearsed, a show that was being performed to an audience of one. It was more of a move made to comfort than anything else.

He pulled away before it had barely begun, searching my eyes with his own.

"I'm sorry."

The apology meant a thousand words more than the kiss did – that was what scared me the most.

Before I could say anything though, maybe a whispered 'return soon,' he was gone – disappearing so completely that if it wasn't for the warmth that flooded my veins, I would have been sure that he had never been there in the first place.

* * *

I had been firing shots at an old, crumbling wall when they found me. The bullets ricocheted off the surface, clouds of broken cement and brick billowing behind it. If anyone dared to climb up to where I was they might have said something about how discrete a huge cloud of smoke was. I would have replied with a simple: 'if I found you, anyone could.' If I'd been in a bad mood, I would have shot them somewhere that would cause a disability.

As it was, no one said anything, they made no indication that they even realised I was there, but the shoulder bump that Uriah gave me when he lay down beside me on the ground, where rocks and metal dug into both our stomach, told me they were here for a reason.

The noise of gunshots and falling stone filled the air, sometimes even the muttered curse. It did more than watching ashes could.

They came back the next day and the day after that and the day after that, until the target they had chosen was little more than rubble on the ground.

* * *

When the news came that Jeanine Matthews was dead, it was if the whole of Dauntless let go of a breath, the tension that had wired people's shoulders disappeared and the halls were suddenly alive and filled with noise and laughter. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that there was still a team of something-teen that had gone out and still had a chance of not coming back.

Except me that was.

And when they announce that those who haven't come back, week's later when small clumps of the original walk through the steel doors in various degrees of distress, I'm caught in between vicious anger and welcome relief. I know now, I have a purpose – I _was _right.

I take my knives, sharpened for this very purpose, and steal some of the provisions from the kitchen. Not too much, but not as little as that I'm going to starve.

I take one last look at the building when you walk out. AndI'm cursing it and shouting at it in my head because it has done _nothing _for me, _nothing. _

I turn, holding one of my blades safely in my palm.

I leave, vision tinged with red and promise that I will return with blood on my hands.

* * *

_**I sorry for the wait, and for the crappiness of it, and for the foreboding nature. One chapter left however, but I'm not making any promises 'cause I'll break them.**_

_**Thanks for everything.**_

_**Snow.**_


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